Keso reached out and with a mighty blow, knocked the gun from Coyote’s hand. Taken by surprise, the rifle tumbled from the Ute’s grasp and fell down the rocky ledge. With an oath, Coyote scrambled after it.
Along the bluff, almost all the warriors were dismounted now, strung out and firing at the soldiers trapped below them. They were dying, too. In that moment, Wannie heard more screams of agony. Only the three outsiders were still mounted.
“Now, Brewster!” Keso shouted suddenly and dug his heels in Spirit’s sides. The big stallion took off like a flash down the embankment, galloping past Coyote and toward the soldiers. Wannie held her breath and clung to his waist. Behind her, Cleve quirted Blue and galloped with them.
The trio was taking a terrible chance, Wannie thought as she buried her face against Keso’s back and hung on. They were riding toward the soldiers’ lines. Some of them were shooting at anything that moved, and Keso was dressed as a warrior.
“Stop them!” Coyote shouted behind them.
Bullets zinged past the galloping riders and ricocheted off the rocks as the Utes obeyed Coyote. Wannie tensed, expecting to feel a bullet in the back at any moment. Would she feel the bullet that killed her? From the front, she was protected by Keso’s body as he rode boldly toward the soldiers’ lines, yelling at them to hold their fire.
The distance seemed as long as forever and as short as a heartbeat, Wannie thought as the horses scrambled down the low bluff, sending rocks rolling. Old Blue and Spirit were caught between two opposing forces, both shooting at them as they galloped across barren, rocky ground.
She glanced back at Cleve. He was so terrified, he was crying and cursing, urging his mount on. They galloped past the fallen major, who lay with part of his head blown away, the shiny pistol still in his hand, his eyes open and staring into the blue autumn sky. He was so young and so handsome, Wannie thought as she stared down at him in horror as they galloped past his body.
“Hold your fire!” Keso shouted as they galloped through the scrub brush toward the confused soldiers. “For God’s sake, hold your fire!” They rode into the midst of the soldiers with Keso reining in and dismounting, reaching up to lift Wannie down.
“Hold your fire!” he shouted again as Cleve galloped toward them on old Blue. “He’s one of ours!”
Keso reached up for Wannie and she slid off into his arms. “You all right, honey?”
“I—I think so.” She clung to his neck, shaking as she suddenly realized the chance they had taken and the horrible sights she had seen.
“Good. Now get behind something and stay low—Coyote will be gunning for us in particular. I’ll see what I can do to help.”
The wounded captain looked pale enough to faint. “Who—who are you?” he demanded of Keso. “You’re dressed like a Ute.”
“I am Ute, but I’m also Keso Evans.” Keso crouched low.
The other man was bleeding and in shock. “ . . . Was there a man dismayed?” he mumbled. “Not though the soldiers knew someone had blundered. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die, into the Valley of Death—”
“Get hold of yourself, man!” Keso grabbed the dazed Captain and shook him back to reality.
“Who . . . who are you?”
“Keso Evans.” He peered into the smudged, dazed face. “Some on the other side want me worse than you.”
Cleve made it into the circle of soldiers and slid down the side of old Blue, sweat on his handsome face. He was shaking so badly, he couldn’t stand. “Damned Indians! I hope you kill them all.”
“It may be the other way around,” the wounded officer said as he wiped cold sweat from his pale face. “I—I’m Captain Payne. Did you see Major Thornburgh out there anywhere?”
Keso nodded, his face grim. “He’s dead. You’re in command now, Captain. I’d suggest you circle your supply wagons—they’ll try to take those. Tell your men to pile up the boxes and bales of blankets from those wagons, anything that will stop a bullet, and stack them in the empty spots.”
Captain Payne waved his good arm. “You men heard him. We’re going to be here awhile. Dig in!”
Wannie huddled closer to Keso. Cleve ignored her, collapsing in sobs behind a wagon. Around them, bullets sang and kicked up dust in the September afternoon. Here and there a man was hit and cried out. Some never knew what hit them.
Abruptly, Keso spotted her. “Wannie, I thought I told you to seek shelter.”
“Oh, stop ordering me around!” Wannie answered. “I’m not going to hide like a frightened rabbit—these men need help. Come on, Cleve, you can—”
“No,” he whimpered, “why should I risk my neck? Oh God, why is this happening to me? Don’t these people know who I am?”
“No, and don’t give a damn either,” Keso snapped. “For once, act like a man, Brewster, and do something to help if for no other reason than it might save your neck.”
That thought alone seemed to galvanize the young heir into action. He didn’t stop whimpering, Wannie noted with disgust, but at least he was dragging boxes and bales around, helping to fortify the rough circle the soldiers had built.
They were trapped like rats, Wannie realized in horror as she looked around and saw the Utes were strung out on both sides of the narrow draw along the treeless, arid buttes. Many of the horses and the mules that pulled the wagons had been hit. The Utes were shooting at the horses deliberately, she thought, knowing that without horses, the soldiers could never manage to escape. Keso had led Spirit and Blue to safety partially shielded by a wagon.
On the distant bluff, she could just barely recognize Coyote’s ugly face smiling at her as he loaded his rifle. She knew from his expression what he was thinking. In her mind, she saw the soldiers all dead and the Utes riding in. Coyote would claim her as his prize and she would be forced to submit to his lust. Taking her and killing Keso had to be the foremost thoughts on his mind.
Wannie took a deep breath and calmed herself. There were wounded and dying men on both sides of this battle. She couldn’t do anything for the warriors, but maybe she could help the wounded around her. She must not think of anything else but what she could do to relieve their suffering. “Is there a doctor?”
The soldier nearest her nodded and pointed to a plump, older man. “Doctor’s hurt, too, miss.”
She crawled over to him. “How bad are you hurt?”
He paused in bandaging his own arm and smiled at her. “I must have died and gone to heaven. Otherwise, how would an angel appear to me?”
“I’ll do what I can to help out, Doc,” she shouted over the gunfire, screams, and snorting horses, “but I’m no angel and I don’t know much about nursing the wounded.” She tried to smile back, but she was quaking inside. She knew how to speak French and Latin, could recite poetry, and knew which fork to use at a formal banquet. At this moment, Wannie would have exchanged all that for the calm, efficient knowledge possessed by Keso, who was bringing order to the barricaded troops and encouraging the injured captain.
“You’ll do, miss,” Doc said as he finished wrapping his own arm. “Let me get my medical bag and some whiskey—we’ve got our hands full.”
“Whiskey?”
“It’s the only disinfectant I’ve got,” he shouted back, “and besides, a dying man should have a little comfort.”
“We’ve got a chance if we can hold out.” She didn’t know whether she was encouraging him or herself. Only Keso seemed to be calm, piling up boxes to stop bullets, reloading rifles, soothing panic-stricken men.
The old doctor didn’t look as if he believed her, but he didn’t say it. He took the first drink from the bottle and a little color returned to his face. “You’re right, young lady. Can you tear up your petticoat for bandages?”
“Sure,” Wannie said and smiled with an assurance she didn’t feel. “All we’ve got to do is hold out—help will come.”
“Who says so?” Cleve’s voice rose in a hysterical shriek near them as he paused. “Who’s going to help
and from where? I should have stayed with the Utes, I should have tried to make a run for it, I should—”
“You should shut up and get ahold of yourself,” Keso shouted at him. “For God’s sake, Brewster, if you’re too shaky to shoot, keep the other men supplied with ammunition!”
Instead, Cleve cowered down behind some sturdy boxes, sobbing. How could she ever have thought he was so wonderful because he knew the latest dance steps and what to do with a finger bowl? What a silly little fool she’d been!
Too late, she saw Keso as he was: a man among men. All Keso knew was how to survive in a hostile environment, look after her, provide her with food, save her life. Wannie made a private vow to herself as she tore up her petticoat and watched Keso in action. If she survived this ordeal, she would spend the rest of her life making it up to him!
In the meantime, she and Doc worked in a dirty, smelly hell. Around them, men cried out and slumped to the ground, horses fell as bullets hit them. The noise of gunfire and the acrid odor of gunpowder mingled with the scent of blood and sweat. The reflection of sunlight off the brass buttons and rifles, lance tips and shiny butcher knives almost blinded her. Oh, if she could only wake up and discover this had all been a terrible nightmare!
She helped Doc bind a soldier’s wounds. “ . . . Water,” he muttered, “drink of water.”
Wannie crawled across the circle toward a water barrel. Only when she saw the mud around the barrel did she realize a bullet had pierced it. Most of the water had run out. She crawled to another and was relieved to find it full. So many men and horses, she thought, and how few barrels of water?
Her own lips were dry and cracked. She had a sudden vision of herself naked and diving into the cold water of the stream near the Evanses’ cabin. She would swim and drink all the cold, clear water she wanted. Keso would be with her and they would laugh and dive like two otters and then make love on the bank.
A shot ricocheted off a wagon wheel near her, jerking her back to hard reality: there might not be enough water to last all these men and horses more than a day. She got a dipperful, swallowed hard, and ignored the temptation to drink it herself.
Keso crawled across the circle, shielding her with his body. “What are you doing?”
“Getting water for a wounded man,” she shouted over the gunfire. “Keso, this water isn’t going to last very long.”
He looked around as if counting men. “You’re right. If we don’t get reinforcements soon, we could be in big trouble. I’ll alert the captain to start some kind of rationing.”
Wannie looked out across the dry prairie grass, blowing like a brown sea in the wind. “Isn’t there a creek out there?”
“Milk Creek,” Keso nodded, “not much more than a trickle and it’s a couple of hundred yards away. Any man who tries it will be a sitting duck.”
“Oh, Keso, I love you so much and now I’ll never get a chance to show you.” She was choking back tears.
He reached out and touched her cheek tenderly. “Honey, you don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that. I was afraid you were regretting last night.”
“Regret?” Her eyes widened with wonder. “It was the most wonderful night of my life.”
“Good. We’ll get married and I’m going to build you a house up at Waanibe with a swing for our kids.”
“And a yard full of wildflowers?”
“Anything you want, honey.”
Cleve joined them just then and jerked the dipper from Wannie, gulping the water down and spilling half of it.
“Cleve, no!” Wannie protested.
Keso grabbed him by the throat. “You bastard! That was for a wounded man!”
“I don’t give a damn about common soldiers,” Cleve said as he shook Keso’s hand off and wiped his wet mouth. “Are you telling me we’ll run out of water?”
“We’ve got enough for a day or two, maybe,” Keso muttered. “I’ll have Captain Payne set up a rationing system. From now on, only the wounded and Wannie get water.”
“I can do without—I’m not wounded.” She gave Cleve a sneer. “You’re rotten and selfish. Why didn’t I see that?”
“Because you’re just like me,” Cleve snapped.
“Not anymore,” Wannie said, “thank God, not anymore.”
Keso grinned. “You know, brat, you’re growing up. You may make me a half-decent wife after all.”
“Egad, what fools you two are!” Cleve snorted. “None of us are going to get out of this alive. We’re pinned down here.”
“Oh, shut up, Cleve,” Wannie said and jerked the dipper out of his hand, “I’m sick of your whining.” She refilled the dipper, her own mouth so dry it was a terrible temptation to drink it herself, but she dared not. She crawled back to where Doc was working and held the dipper to the wounded man’s lips. “Here you are, soldier, water. Pretty soon, there’ll be a relief column and you’ll be in the infirmary with lots of hot chicken soup and soft pillows.”
His grimy hand reached out to steady the dipper. “Thank you, miss. You—you drop out of the sky?”
“Not hardly!” Wannie tried to keep up a cheery front as she bandaged him.
“A lady’s petticoat,” the soldier said and smiled, “close as I’ll ever get to a lady.”
She leaned over and kissed his smudged forehead. “I’ll bet there’s a girl waiting for you somewhere.”
“Mary. Her name’s Mary.” The man smiled weakly, gasping a little as he looked up at Doc. “Help coming?”
Doc hesitated and nodded. “Sure, soldier, now you just lie still and take it easy.”
“ . . . Need to help my bunkies,” he whispered, “where are O’Reilly and Matson, Doc?”
She followed Doc’s gaze to where two soldiers lay sprawled and bloody against the barricades.
“Hey, they’re doing fine without you, soldier,” Doc lied, “they don’t need your help now. You close your eyes and rest awhile and this young lady will sit here and hold your hand, won’t you, miss?”
“Of course.” She looked up at Doc and he sighed and shook his head. This soldier was dying. She wanted to cry, but knew she must not. Doc crawled away and she took the soldier’s hand. “Hold on, soldier, there’ll be help coming.”
He smiled at her, smudges of powder and bright blood on his pale face. “Wait ’til Mary hears I was bandaged with a lady’s petticoat.”
Wannie forced herself to laugh and winked at him. “You think she’ll be jealous?”
“We’re gettin’ married when I get back,” he gasped, “I see you’re wearing a weddin’ ring.”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hand, listening to the gunfire and the shouts and screams and curses around them. “Think about your girl, soldier, think about your wedding.”
His eyes flickered closed and he smiled. She wondered about the girl and what she was doing at this very minute while her man lay dying in a desolate valley at a place nobody ever heard of.
“I—I need to go with my bunkies,” he murmured and closed his eyes. “We always did things together, rode with the Major long time . . .”
“They’re waiting for you, soldier,” she promised and ran a gentle hand over his forehead, “I promise they’re waiting for you.”
“Good boys,” he whispered so softly she had to lean closer to hear him, “they’re comin’ to my weddin’.”
Wannie held his hand, her vision blurred with tears.
“Mary?” he whispered, “Is that you, Mary?”
“Yes, I—I’m here.” She fought to keep her hot tears from dripping on his face as she leaned over and kissed his lips. He smiled and then his fingers went limp in hers.
“Soldier?” she leaned close to his face. “Soldier, can you hear me?”
The slight smile remained on his lips, but he was gone to join his buddies.
For just a moment, Wannie buried her face in her hands and shook. She didn’t have time to cry for one dead soldier when there were so many others who needed her help. She swallowed hard and
pulled the blanket up over the face that looked so peaceful now.
Wannie got up and hurried to help Doc with the next one. “It doesn’t seem right,” she said. “These poor devils came out here under orders and they don’t even know what this is all about.”
Doc nodded as he tore away the bloody uniform of an unconscious man. “There’s Utes out there dying, too, remember, and there’ll be Indian women and children wailing in sorrow tonight. A clash of cultures and a lot of misunderstanding, and men die on both sides.”
That was true, Wannie thought. The Utes were only trying to defend their land and they were dying out there on those buttes, too, just as soldiers were dying here.
They finished aiding three more wounded men. She looked around for Keso, who had led a group of soldiers to dig a pit out in the middle of the circle of wagons and barricades. They were moving the wounded into that pit for protection and also starting to bury the dead. Cleve had crawled under a wagon for protection and lay there shaking and cursing.
It was going to be a long day, Wannie thought wearily. She took a deep breath and smelled smoke. Keso swore suddenly and she crawled to him. “Keso, what is it?”
He nodded toward the prairie past the wagons. Yellow and red tongues of flame licked through the dry grass, aided by a brisk autumn wind. “The Utes have set fire to the grass—they’re going to try to burn us out!”
“Oh, Keso,” she cried and put her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming at the thought of being burned alive, “what’ll we do? We haven’t enough water to—”
“We’ll start a backfire. If I can burn off the area around the wagons and barricades, their fire won’t have anything to feed on. Stay in a safe place, honey.” Keso kissed her forehead and ran, crouching low.
“Oh, Keso, be careful!” she called after him, knowing he was intent not on his own safety, but that of all the others.
She watched, her heart in her mouth as Keso and a couple of volunteers crawled out and set backfires, then stood by with wet burlap sacks should the fires blow back toward the wagons. A few embers blew up on the canvas wagon covers, but Wannie and the others grabbed damp burlap bags and climbed up to fight the fires. Some of the wagons were damaged, but they saved most of the supplies. She took a good look at Meeker’s threshing machine. It sat there on its wagon like a silent steel monster, a plate on the side claiming Brewster Industries. It all seemed so funny somehow. She began to laugh.
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